


Mirrors

by elephant_eyelash



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Body Image, F/M, Fluffy?, lame ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1599920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephant_eyelash/pseuds/elephant_eyelash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shireen/Rickon. Wanted to get more into Shireen's character, so hereyago. Originally posted on tumblr, in response to sabotensan's musings on this pairing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirrors

One thing Shireen began to realise soon in her life was that, no matter how hard you tried, there were mirrors everywhere. There had been a silent agreement for her to have no mirrors in her room, as if the replication of her image would only traumatise her further. But she soon found her face elsewhere: in the reflection of steel plate, in pools of rainwater, and, most disconcertingly, in people’s eyes. And in their eyes she would see not only herself, but also their fear, this fear that would make their eyes change into strange shapes as they tried to make sense of her. They imagined this she could not see, but Shireen was an observant girl from the start, and soon she began to prefer the cold, passive reflection of the mirror to having to look people in the eye.

On bad days she wished she could muddy the world, obscure it in shadow, so as to stop all reflection. She would bend the light, make it illuminate the few things she liked about her reflection: her eyes, for example, soft and sad but beautiful (at least that was what her mother said). Or she would wish for herself to become one with Dragonstone, to become finally all stone and not some strange fleshy Halfling. She would breathe in the scent of the moss on the stone, try to imagine a world with her stone brothers and sisters, who would not be frightened of her skin. And there she would shed the other things, too; the Florent ears; until she had no body but just her spirit, her senses.

When she told him this he told her that he could vanish from his body. That when he was one with his direwolf that all that was left was the ghost of memories, that they were less sharp, less keen; that the scents and sounds of the world rose into a crest that you felt you could conquer; that soon your body became something separate from your mind, superficial and unimportant, temporary. The idea to her was more thrilling than anything she has encountered before, the idea of dissipating, of forgetting.

She lays down next to Shaggydog and feeds him. He smells of Rickon (or Rickon smells like him, she isn’t sure) and the wild – of pine needles and cool fresh air, and underneath the scent of blood on the ground. She isn’t afraid. There are many killers here. At least Shaggydog shows her his teeth, though never in threat. His eyes, also – a dense black – won’t show her reflection, and for this she loves the animal even more.

And even in Rickon’s eyes, she finds no calculation, no hesitation towards her. The first few times she avoids his eyes, sick with fear at the possibility of his revulsion, but he guides her with her hand. His eyes are green like she imagines the forests near his home, and later – when they are wrapped together – he tells her that her eyelashes are soft as feathers. He runs his fingers down her scale and tells her of the stones of Winterfell, scarred by years of cracking ice and wind, and how when he looks at her he can spot long-forgotten glances of home.

He watches her as she sleeps. He enjoys the small breaths she takes, the way her cheeks warm under his hand, the way her face softens and finally manages to calm. He finally manages to sleep as the embers of the fire extinguish, and they are wrapped in a familiar – but shared – darkness.


End file.
